


Excuses, Excuses

by Britpacker



Series: Life On Earth [9]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8065021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Their daughter's due any day. Malcolm's been listening to old wives' tales.  Trip's surprised but hey - whatever works!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Going through my documents the other day I discovered this, inspired by an article I read before the birth of Prince George advising his mother on how she might speed things along. My mind works in some odd ways, I know!

Captain Charles Tucker the Third trudged up the drive toward his large red brick home, feeling the lead weights lifting off his shoulders with every step. It had been one hell of a day, even before he'd been called in by the top brass for a "brief update": a phrase any experienced officer recognised as Starfleet speak for "four hours in a stuffy conference room". Now, past nineteen hundred hours, he'd been forced to take a stale sandwich in place of the relaxed Italian meal he'd been promised, and unless his partner had taken pity on him and delayed their son's bath time this would be another day when one or other had precisely zero quality time with their son.

Sometimes, much as he loved his job, Trip Tucker hated Starfleet.

Carefully wiping his feet he keyed in his access code and clambered over the low doorstep, happy despite the tiredness that rubberised every muscle. From the large open-plan living room the irresistible sound of his child's carefree laughter enticed him in, work's cares dissolving from his mind. "Hey, Charlie! Daddy let you stay up late, huh?"

"Poppa!" Charles Malcolm Reed Tucker, a.k.a. The Toddling Tornado, ripped across from his den amid a fleet of toy starships, sticky fingers clawing into the tough fabric of his blond parent's uniform pants. "Come see, I got a new s'uttlepod!"

"Well that's nice." Dismissing the twinge in his back Trip scooped the wriggling boy into his arms for a kiss that felt sticky and tasted unmistakably sweet and tart in one. "Daddy's been hittin' the pineapple again, huh?"

"With ice cream." Blond hair tumbling into eyes of steely grey, Charlie squealed as he was swung around, the usual prelude to being deposited gently as a china doll onto the floor. "'nilla _and_ choc'late!"

"Chocolate ice cream with pineapple?" Only Malcolm Reed, Trip mused ruefully, vainly trying to wipe the goo from his fingers before turning to face his beloved spouse. "Oh, well. Whatever floats your boat, I guess."

"Evening, love." Like a large sable cat Captain Reed uncurled from his corner chair to stand, arms extended for his husband's hug. "It _is_ fresh pineapple, you know. Fruit's good for him."

Scattered on a tray rested precariously over the edge of the coffee table between Malcolm's favourite wing-chair and the couch were a jumble of spiky shavings - the outer coating, Trip calculated, of at least two large fruits, several small chunks of which remained in a rough pyramid close to a tall glass of something clear and sparkling. "Er, Malcolm? You know what they said about the risk of passin' on our allergies?" he hinted.

"Charles's allergies are soap and water, not plant enzymes and dust mites, Captain." With a grin Malcolm popped another dripping chunk of fruit into his son's mouth. "And chew it _properly_ , please!"

Trip snickered as the small boy broke free, loudly chomping on his titbit. "Guess this means you've eaten?" he said mournfully. 

"When I got your message I thought it best." Momentarily, the brunet was as downcast as the blond. "I've saved our linguini, though. Thought we could have that for our celebration dinner whenever..."

As his voice tailed off Malcolm's eyes shifted to rest on the toddler clattering joyously over the plastic spacedock built beside and halfway under their dining table. "When baby comes?" Charlie asked hopefully. "She's comin' soon, i'n't she? I wanna play with baby!"

"She'll be here very soon, darling, I promise." From puzzlement at the prospect when his parents had first tried to explain the little boy, closing in on his third birthday, had moved rapidly to impatient delight at the thought of a playmate and now spent much of his time (if not his boundless energy) in badgering his fathers to know how, why and when his new sister would arrive.

"You know she can't play with you right away; she'll be too little." His warnings, Trip knew, flew way over the head of a true Tucker enthusiast. Charlie had Malcolm's eyes - and signs of that magnificent bone structure too - but the golden hair and the boundless energy of his Florida family. "C'mon Daddy, time for this little guy's bath."

"Be my guest, Poppa." Still greedily eyeing his pineapple stack (and, Trip realised, the small dipping bowls of cream and chocolate sauce on either side) Malcolm caught the squirming child and presented him to his fellow father. Pushing up onto his toes, he planted a quick kiss on the bigger man's temple. "If you're quick, I'll even save you a piece."

"I wouldn't come between you and your pineapple, Mal." The laughter of a happy family merged inside his head. With a spring in his stride, Trip Tucker hefted his boy across his shoulders in a fireman's lift and, puffing theatrically under the slight weight, set off for the stairs and a splashy, soapy play before bedtime.

*

He was still wringing the excess water from his jumpsuit when he re-entered the lounge, a smile unrolling unbidden at the scene which greeted him. In the corner their large monitor glowed - the evening news, he gathered though the volume was turned too low for human ears. His shoes kicked off, Malcolm lay across his chair with legs hanging over one arm, a cushion propped at the small of his back and the sweet treat tray balanced on his midriff. Eyes half closed, he sucked a glistening dollop of thick cream from the fruit before slowly, sensuously, wrapping his tongue around it.

He couldn't help it. As his throat dried out and his balls began to tighten, Trip reminded himself firmly of that fact. He was only human, after all.

"Enjoyin' yourself?" he croaked. One silvery eye popped open.

"Very much, thank you." With a voluptuous stretch Reed made his meal wobble alarmingly: not, Trip noticed, that the man himself seemed concerned. "Don't worry; I did give Charles a decent meal. It just felt like too much effort to make something for myself when I knew you'd be stuck with a dried-out sausage roll and a cold cup of coffee in Admiral Waller's office."

"That's all you've eaten?" Outrage sent his voice up the whole vocal scale. Malcolm pouted.

"It's healthy - apart from the cream and the chocolate, of course," he amended hastily. "Besides, I was thinking..."

"That's dangerous." He'd have preferred a cuddle on the couch, but given his darlin's disinclination to move Trip decided he could spread himself out, and kick off his shoes in the process. Malcolm snorted.

"There's an old wives' tale about bromaline..."

"That's the stuff you're allergic to?"

"My jabs are up to date, thank you, but yes. Apparently it can help to, er, encourage the new arrival, as it were."

"Malcolm." Laughter swelled behind his ribcage and Trip made no effort to keep it contained. "I hate to break this to ya but it's a machine that'll be goin' into labour, not you!"

"I realise that." A brilliant smile lit the brunet's face, transforming a handsome man into a giddy boy. "But any excuse, eh? And I do like pineapple."

"I know." It looked like water and smelled like it too, but Trip took a sip of his husband's drink, just to be sure. "You want me to clear up all that mess?"

"You're a sweetheart." A kiss was blown his way while he gathered the thick peelings and small pots, leaving Malcolm with the last precious pieces of his treat. Still shaking his head, Trip headed for the kitchen to the melody of his lover's exaggeratedly blissful moans.

Malcolm Reed listening to old wives' tales? He would never have believed it, even after a decade and more together. Trip knew couples who claimed after half that time that life had gotten boring; that each partner knew all there was to know about the other. 

He counted his blessings every day. A couple of millennia wouldn't be enough to learn all there was to know about the clever, complex bundle of contradictions that was his soul mate.

"Bromaline!" he muttered, sweeping the peelings into the garbage and splashing water over the sticky, juice-stained tray before finishing up the last cream and chocolate sauce in a couple of swift, sweet mouthfuls. "Hell, if it's ways of inducin' the birth he wants, I can do better than that!"

With that idea spinning through his skull he abandoned the dishes, wiped his hands on a tea towel and positively sauntered back to the lounge. "Malcolm? Where'd you hear that thing about the bromaline?"

"Commander Haggard; recommended by her mother-in-law when she hit her due date." Nosily sucking the last residue from his fingers the Brit swung himself around to sit properly, smiling serenely at his partner. "If you want a proper meal, you know, I'll sort something. You look knackered."

"Four hours of Admiral Waller does that to a guy." However he looked, Trip was feeling livelier by the second. "Your mom-in-law's got another suggestion, if you're interested."

"I'm always interested in what your mother has to say, love." Aware he was being scrutinised with more than usual intensity, Malcolm sat up straighter and tugged at his open collar. Keeping his movements slow and easy, Trip eased his way to perch on the arm of the chair, bending to whisper right against his husband's ear.

"She told Susie to have sex."

His reactions, honed by years of Lieutenant Reed's self-defence classes in deep space, were just equal to the challenge of dodging aside before the man could rocket up out of his seat. "What!" Malcolm squeaked, turning pink to the end of his nose. Trip unleashed his filthiest chuckle.

"Have sex. Make love. Fuck. You gettin' the idea yet?" he asked sweetly. Malcolm swallowed. Hard.

"I think so," he croaked. Idly, aware of the power surging through him like he'd been plugged into Enterprise's EPS grid, Trip let a hand glide down Malcolm's arm and into his lap.

"'Pparently it stimulates the cervix or somethin'," he murmured, his tongue taking a playful swipe against the smaller man's neck. "It's not gonna do much for us, but if you're feelin' the need..."

"Oh, I am!" There were worse substitutes than pineapple but for real pleasure - raw, intoxicating, the kind of giddy bliss that made a man feel fully alive - there was only one true source. Malcolm shifted, granting more room to the protrusion beginning to grow between his thighs. That his movements had the effect of making Trip's still hand caress the sensitive bulge was something he hadn't calculated, but enjoyed all the same.

"Any excuse," the Southerner murmured before he dipped in to nip the succulent spot at the base of his partner's throat. A little shifting and a lot of satisfying friction later he lay sprawled across the brunet's lap, connecting in all the right place while languidly, unhurried, each man undressed the other. "Love you," he sighed.

"Mmmm, it's mutual." The friction was good, but what he'd been offered was even better. Subtly Malcolm lifted his hips, deaf to his own whimper at the slight increase of pressure the motion earned him. "Want you inside me, Trip. Please."

"Whatever you want." The slide from seat to floor happened so naturally Trip didn't even feel it, cushioned between his husband's thighs. "We're doin' this t' encourage the baby, yeah?" he mouthed against Malcolm's shoulder.

"Oh, of course." His eyes slipping shut Malcolm surrendered himself to the care of his beloved Trip, everything else lost to the moment's sweetness. Cool lotion trickled around his entrance; pressure began to build through his body, increasing with every preparatory touch. Utterly relaxed, he flowed to Trip's every move like water, barely aware of penetration's inevitable burn. The impending birth, the small boy upstairs; everything was forgotten in the wonder of being thoroughly, properly loved.

*

"Malcolm?"

"Yes, love?" When Trip would have rolled off his sated length Malcolm found unexpected reserves of strength to hold him back, needing to hold onto the comforting sensation of being covered in his husband's love.

"You feelin' any labour pains yet?"

Unexpected laughter broke out sharp enough to sting the back of his throat. "Not so's you'd notice," the Brit replied, tilting his head to grant greater access to the side of his neck; Trip liked a jugular to suckle on in the afterglow, and as long as it was his Malcolm had no complaints. "You?"

"Nah. Good, huh?"

"Does that mean we have to have sex again soon?"

"Soon as I can drag mah tired ass up the stairs if you're up for it." Wobbling slightly Trip managed to get himself vertical before offering a hand to the smaller man. Malcolm's starry eyes twinkled.

"We'll have to get pregnant more often," he said happily. 

They were both still laughing when their backsides hit the mattress of their enormous Denobulan marital bed.

*

Over breakfast the call came through, a female voice high with excitement that stopped a spoonful of cereal halfway to Master Charlie's mouth. "Captain Tucker, Captain Reed, this is Ana Gonzales. How quickly can you get to New York? Your daughter will be here by the end of the day." 


End file.
